Crossword Clue Eighteen
by Schermionie
Summary: 18 Across. An emotion that is said to come from the heart, 4 letters. For the Bizarre Pairings or the Works Challenge, Molly II/Lysander oneshot.


Disclaimer: Me? Own Harry Potter? I think not.

Challenge Name: Bizarre Pairings or the Works Challenge

Challenge Issuer: Nanaho-Hime

Where?: Harry Potter Fanfiction Challenges Forum

Challenge: Be given quotes and a pairing and write. My pairing was Lysander/Molly II and my quotes were:

_When they meet it always ends up being a sarcastic commentary on society (and, oh, sometimes she can't even stand the irony). _and

_They suit each other well, or that's what Lucy says, but Lysander doesn't really do romance._

Thanks to: **SoUsay234**, **tat1312** and **SiriusMarauderFan** for being my fantabulous betas!_ (And for increasing the size of my head by about 632 million times. xD)  
_

Notes: Before this, I'd never even read a fic containing Lysander or Molly. I'm not really sure if I have since writing this, either. Their personalities were built up from the quotes and the backstories I gradually wrote for them. To be honest, I don't think I've enjoyed writing this much for a while now. This was definitely a challenge, but so, so fun! **So, please, leave me some reviews**. Let me know you've passed this way. Constructive criticism is, as always, appreciated.

...but I hope you enjoy!~

* * *

Molly Weasley's job is a bit like a spy's. It involves infiltration, improvisation, extracting information from those on their guard, knowing what to do with that information, lying, disregarding the emotions and privacy of others, putting up with people she doesn't like or agree with, blending in with a crowd, and sheer guts and determination and _instinct_.

Molly knows she has all of these things and she's been on the front page of _the Daily Prophet_ so many times that she's lost count of all her top stories and scoops and it's all sort of started to blur.

It's not that she doesn't_ care_ about people or life. Her family is warm and caring and she's grown up knowing the importance of sticking together when the going gets tough. Thing is, though, that applies to her family and her family only. If others do stupid or interesting things, even her friends (who come and go more quickly than she can keep up with) - well, Molly has never really been able to _resist_ her interest in it; or, as some would call it, her interest in telling other people about it. She's never been good at keeping secrets yet people say she has this air about her that invites confidence.

All very useful for a journalist, though not great for long-term social connections.

In a way, she blames her mother for it. Everyone compares her ambition and determination to her father's, but Molly knows it was her mother who passed it on. Percy had always made it clear that he expected his daughters to care about their futures, but he'd never muttered disdainful things seeing a shop assistant in his thirties or when people wore worn clothing or decided to take gap years. Audrey was, all told, a bit of a snob, and this had only escaped Percy's notice because he'd loved her and because she'd been good at hiding it, and, anyway, he'd always wanted his children to have a richer upbringing than he'd had.

Molly blames her mother for teaching her to stand tall, to follow her convictions and desires, and that the top is the only good place to be; Molly blames her mother for demonstrating all the ways you can wrangle what you want from people and get away with it; Molly blames her mother for the fact that she is here, being schmoozed by some of the biggest companies in wizarding Britain and having more superficial conversations than many have in their entire lives. She especially blames her for the fact that she actually _wants_ to be here.

She's twenty-six and here is where she has her first work-related discussion with Lysander Scamander.

It is not the last.

* * *

When they meet it always ends up being a sarcastic commentary on society:

"This country's going to the dogs," Lysander had greeted her with once.

"Good," she'd replied. "Us bloodhounds'll never be out of a job."

"It means it'll never go to those fatcats over there as well," he'd commented flatly, subtly shaking his champagne glass in the direction of the sponsors of this particular schmooze-a-thon.

"What?" she'd asked with a discreet glance at them. "I thought they were the cleaners, those robes are so plain."

Lysander had smirked then. "Compared to everyone else in this room, Molly, I'd say they'd do a great job of cleaning this country up."

(and, oh, sometimes she can't even _stand_ the irony).

_'It's really important that we make the rich-poor divide that so ravishes Britain in these times smaller, and I'd like to make it clear that this newspaper completely supports the Ministry's current push for equality in employment.'_

_Molly thinks it's more important to judge on talent than on background, but she can't really say the same for all of her colleagues - and as for the newspaper's take on things? They'd say _anything_ to get on _everyone's_ good terms._

_It makes her laugh when Lysander doesn't even bother to change the wording of her article for the Sunday issue he edits._

They suit each other well, or that's what Lucy says, but neither of them really _do_ romance:

"He's nothing _like_ Lorcan," Lucy pointed out as Molly reluctantly painted her nails for her. "In fact, I'd say Lysander's as nasty as you are."

Molly snorted. "That's not a big enough compliment to pay me back for painting your nails for you, sis, no matter how truthful it is."

"I'm serious, Molls. You two suit each other; I knew it as soon as I met him that day at -"

"That was years ago. You haven't met him since he left home and stopped coming to your _birthday parties_." The last part was said a bit meanly. In truth, the Scamanders had come around a lot more when Lysander and Lorcan were younger. Now that the twins were both grown up, they had their own lives and busy schedules; Lucy had just missed out on the time window.

"He still signs his name on cards..."

"You just think we're good together because we're both journalists," griped Molly. "But that is _no_ indication of compatibility."

"Exactly!" said Lucy, trying not to move her hands excitedly at what she evidently saw as a triumph. "It's more than that you have the same job: it's _chemistry_. I've talked to Mum and Dad and they both approve -"

"You did not!" Molly stopped painting Lucy's right little finger, glaring. "How the hell would you even get them to reach a joint decision _other_ than that they hate each other? Let alone - _why_?"

Lucy's eyes began to fill with tears as they always did when their parents' recent divorce was mentioned. The girl was only fifteen, Molly remembered, and suddenly, their thirteen years age difference seemed like a lifetime.

"I thought it best to go about things properly," explained Lucy with a shrug, attempting to pretend that the sharp reminder hadn't hurt, "and I knew _you'd_ never bother. Mum and Dad don't _really_ hate each other... and even if they did, they'd still love _us_."

Molly opened her mouth to argue again but Lucy continued, "Molls, one of these days you'll figure out that following the rules can get you to more places than breaking them. Just because you're my sister, it doesn't mean I won't do what's best for you when _you_ won't."

"One of these days," Molly said, throwing the bottle of varnish onto Lucy's bed and standing up, "you'll grow up and figure out that teenage magazines are full of shit.

"You'll also," she went on, "learn how to do your own nails. Just because you're my sister, it doesn't mean I'll help you all the time."

She walked out, wondering how she'd explain to her parents that Lucy had been telling tales again because neither she nor Lysander had _any_ intention of having a relationship or, indeed, becoming friends. Neither had any interest in something so fragile as _love_

(what she's always told herself, and Molly knows herself as well as her well-thumbed copy of _Prefects Who Gained Power_).

_'It's really important that we remember the traditions of our society. I, for one, always respected the Prefects when I attended Hogwarts and I would be honoured to work with one. I think that Prefects are often found in positions of power because their duties give them a lot of responsibility and teach them a good work acumen that will stay with them for the rest of their lives. It teaches them to manage others that they don't necessarily have anything in common with. It's not that employers have so many impressive Curriculum Vitaes (CVs) to choose from that they simply choose the Prefects automatically; let us put this in simple terms: exams are not getting easier. I think it is time that we respect the people in authority for what they really are: the people who deserve to be there. The people who really _can_ lead us.'_

_'Into a recession,' he wants to add, but he doesn't._

_This is all rubbish, of course, but then Lysander tries never to write what he personally believes in; nor does he ever try to say it. There's homelife and then worklife, and, unlike Lorcan who has followed their parents' footsteps and become an enthusiastic naturalist, Lysander's never liked to mix the two. It's all well and good for him to know that Prefects systematically bullied his mother because she was not like them (and, well, they'd done it to _him_ as well, before he'd learnt to lie) - but to write such a thing would get him fired. He likes his job because in its own dirty way it lets him know more about the world and how it works as well as he knows himself. He hadn't been a Ravenclaw for seven years to not realise that that was his true passion in life._

_It makes him laugh when Molly doesn't even bother to change the wording of his article for the Monday issue._

* * *

"To us," says Lysander, his toast of the evening.

"To us," Molly agrees, downing her shot in the same way.

They survey their cushy office for a moment. "Co-editor," muses Molly, trying the sound out. "Never thought I'd have the 'co' in there."

"It's a shame these windows won't open much," he muses after a moment, having just tried them out, "because I was really hoping I could push you out of one."

"If it's fresh air you're looking for," replies Molly with all the nonchalance she can muster, "then I know this really high cliff top where we can go for some _great_ views."

"I'm not sure I trust your judgement on that, what with your new glasses."

Molly sits herself comfortably on her desk, trying not to scowl at his non-stop teasing about her specs. "All the better to see the knife you plan to stab me in the back with."

"Real friends stab each other in the front," quips Lysander, settling himself on his own desk, next to the alcohol.

The silence that follows is a little awkward. They have a lot of unspoken agreements, and one of them is to try and never use the word 'friend' when speaking to each other. She's thirty-five and he's thirty-six and so far it's not had a lot of meaning for them. Their relationship, such as it is, is something they've silently agreed never to discuss because it _does_ have meaning.

"What do your parents think of your career?" Lysander asks suddenly.

There's this kind of hungry look in his eyes that has nothing to do with getting a story and everything to do with please-I-need-to-hear-this-from-you; Molly knows she has to answer, scary as that look is, scary as actually acknowledging what her parents think of her is. "...They're proud, of course. My mother... approves."

Lysander keeps on looking at her like that. "And your father?"

"Wishes I could be more like my straight-forward, Arithmancy-teaching sister."

"Ah."

Her voice is more hesitant than she ever lets it be. "Yours?"

He gets up and paces, as he always does when he has too many words to say and needs to sort them out. When he finally sits back down again she half expects him to shout for his off-duty secretary and dictate a brilliant article that they'd all wish they'd thought of themselves.

It'd go into print the next day: _CO-EDITOR OF PROPHET TELLS TRUTH_ the headline would scream, and people would buy it just to try and spot the lies.

Hark at her. Molly had this tendency to write articles during conversations, getting started on things while still collecting quotes and facts. Her mother had sneeringly told her that her father had done that with papers for work, but she'd never got him to admit to it.

"You've met both of them, Molly," Lysander begins, interrupting her inner narrative about their gorgeous office, which she'd planned to lead on to how successful he was, and, from there, quotes from the conversation. "My mother's always been able to accept things as they are; that's a trait that you either love or hate. Her father was the editor of _the Quibbler_ up until he died three years ago (my brother took over afterwards like some saint), so she grew up around journalism. When I wrote articles for _the Quibbler_ and other small newspapers, I knew both of my parents were proud of me... but when I got my job at _the Sunday Prophet_, the one I'd wanted for years..."

He trails off and squeezes his eyes shut.

"You felt like you'd failed in your greatest moment of triumph..." says Molly, staring at empty space and trying to block out her own memories of an eerily similar time.

Lysander's eyes open and his head snaps up. "How did you -?"

"Like you'd found loads of galleons then realised it was all leprechaun gold," Molly interrupts.

Lysander stares but then slowly smiles, getting it. "Like you'd just woken up to realise you'd promised to go to a four-year-old's birthday party on the day of the most important business meeting you'd ever had."

"Like you'd thought you were doing really well in a divination exam when you saw a very clear image of an ugly man in a Crystal Ball, described it to the examiner triumphantly and then looked up to realise you were describing his reflection."

Her co-conspirator raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure you didn't do that on purpose?"

"Not _me_ - it was my Uncle Ron doing these things."

"Tall bloke, red hair, married to Hermione Granger?"

"The very same."

"Figures," says Lysander after a moment of consideration. "He's never seemed that clever when I've met him."

They both laugh because it's nasty but that's the kind of people they are and they _need_ something funny to grab onto when there's more tension in the air than they're comfortable with.

"You know," says Molly when they stop laughing, "I always did wonder why you seemed so different to Lorcan."

He senses the question. "I think it's because I've been spending time around you, to tell the truth."

"I _have_ been known to corrupt people," she admits, "but I'd say it's the other way around in this case."

"Women," scoffs Lysander. "They always blame the men."

"If you call yourself a man."

"I call myself Lysander - haven't you figured that out?"

Molly ignores the weak comeback to pursue her point. "Lysander Scamander. Ever the bachelor, the charmer and the stabber-in-the-backer."

"That's me."

"Then why not vanish those windows and push me out? I'm sure you could think of a cover-up for my death, make it look like an accident."

He shakes his head, dismissing it. "Too messy."

She snorts. "I take it back. You're _definitely_ a man. You never want to clean up or take responsibility, even though you're fully capable of doing it."

There's quiet for a moment and Molly wonders if he's feeling ill because he hasn't given the expected rebuttal of 'I'm not _a_ man: I'm _the_ man, and you know it.'

"...Why should I do it when you're so much better at it than I am, Molly?" he says instead, and this time she can't reply because he doesn't appear to be joking.

The resulting silence is awkward again and this time it lasts for longer.

_CO-EDITOR OF PROPHET GOES INSANE_ screams Molly's inner headline generator.

"I haven't told you what my father thinks of me yet," Lysander says, changing the subject quite obviously.

Molly's not sure what she prefers but grabs hold of this one anyway. "No. What _does_ he think?"

"I don't really know. We've never discussed it."

"...Oh?"

Then why _mention_ it?

"He's like me. Keeps things separate. Work is for work, and personal stuff is only to be discussed in personal situations. All he's said is 'Well done' and 'How is it going?' and 'Are you going to write about blibbering humdingers?' and I can't read him at all. He only _really_ opens up around my mother, but I don't have anyone like that..."

Molly swallows and looks at the bottle next to Lysander. Usually she'd just go up and grab it, but she feels as though she's glued to her desk. What is he saying? Surely what they're discussing is personal? _Too_ personal for work, and that's where they are and where they always are when they see each other.

"Oh," she says again, feeling like an idiot. "I guess I'm like that, too..."

It's a silent plea for him to stop talking about it, the plea anyone who has to tell people things they can't cope with knows all too well.

Molly thinks back to every time her father tried to talk about things and realises that she's inherited his social awkwardness when it comes to talking about the important matters. She clears her throat and forces herself to put into words what she thinks, unwilling as she is to say it because it's actually kind of _nice_.

Taking a deep breath, she says, "Your father is probably terribly disappointed in you for taking no interest in blibbering humdingers and having the gall to tell him that no serious journalist _would_, but you're clever and you know what you're doing when it comes to your work and you probably get that from him. I'm sure he knows that this is what _you_ want."

She's never seen him smile like that. "Thanks, Molls," he says, using a nickname he's never used, either. "Sometimes I forget that... but you're right."

"It's a pity you're a man and I'm a woman," Molly tells him because 'I'm always right' is such a _boring_ thing to say, even if it _is_ true, "because otherwise I'd punch you in the face for calling me 'Molls'."

Lysander frowns, but somehow his casually loosened tie makes him look completely different to how he usually looks when he does it (severe and stern or go-away-I'm-thinking). "I think you'll find it's _men_ who can't hit _women_."

"I don't think anyone should hit anyone."

"I see we agree on domestic violence."

"Good to know."

"...Seems like we'll work well together, then," he prods her after a beat.

She senses the question. "I give it three days before we reaffirm our views about violence."

"Weekend included?"

"...Hm, no, since we only see each other on working days, it'll be five."

"Ah," says Lysander, "but what if we see each other at the weekend?"

Molly feels the tension coming back (_and it's not just been today, has it?_ a voice asks her at the back of her mind;_ It's been there for a while, hasn't it?_) and tries to keep the conversation at their version of 'light'. "Then we'll be the second shortest-termed co-editors of _the Daily Prophet_ ever."

Lysander grins but for some reason it just makes the tension inside her worse. "Second only to the impressive one day in 1885, I believe?"

She summons her Weasley courage (or, as she's always called it, blind toughness) and ignores the urge to grin back. "Yes. One day before Robert Brown and Alexander Merville got sick of each other and offed each other in a duel over the eighteenth crossword clue. ...Ironically enough, it later turned out that the answer to that clue was 'love'."

Another barely-touched word.

"You've been reading up on this," he accuses without pause.

"So have you," she snaps back.

"Naturally."

"Research on the best duelling techniques?"

"Research on how not to work on an equal level with someone, actually."

"Not to do it at all?" Molly suggests, playing with her empty shotglass absently.

"Oh, but that would be _no_ fun."

"Less squabbles."

"Less mayhem."

"Less red tape."

"...More office space."

"More money, too."

"Huh. Maybe co-editing _is_ a bad idea."

They laugh as he pours himself another shot, but does not drink it. "But seriously," he says when he's done pouring, "if we hadn't agreed to co-edit, you'd definitely have got this job either on your own or with someone else."

"...You're being awfully nice tonight. Ulterior motive?"

His eyes widen innocently, though they're already wide like his mother's. "I'm shocked you'd ask such a thing. Especially when you're being so nice yourself."

Panic. "When have I been nice?"

Amusement. "You told me I'm not like my brother."

Panic. "I really don't get why you don't like him so much."

Seriousness. "He doesn't approve of you."

Panic. "...A lot of people don't."

Dismissive. "Well _I_ do."

Panic. "Well you shouldn't."

Lysander sighs and looks at his full shot glass as if he's tempted to drink it, but is stopping himself. "Are you _trying_ to make me want to kill you?"

"No - I don't need to try. You've said many times that killing me off would be very good for your career, and as that's all you care about -"

"Now we're working this closely together and _have_ to get along," he interrupts, talking over her until she stops, "I'd say you're the most important part of my career. Seeing as this is the peak of my career so far, and you've helped me get here, I think that makes you too damn important to me to kill you."

Molly's eyes widen. Coming from him, she thinks that's about the most romantic thing she's ever heard... but Lysander doesn't _do_ romance, and neither does she.

She's thinking that maybe she's misread the clues and he'd meant it as a joke that she just hasn't got, but before she knows it he's holding up his shot glass and saying,

"To us."


End file.
